"I can see why people call you the 'Coffee King'."

Miranda looked at the collection of coffee paraphernalia that lined the kitchen shelves. Wherever she looked, there was something related to coffee: tasses, demitasses, filter jugs, drips ... . And the smell! Every breath she took was redolent with the aroma of roasted coffee. It rolled down her throat and into her mouth, coating her tongue with the rich taste of brown beans. But she could feel an increasing pressure in her left temple - the sure sign of an impending migraine headache. Miranda ignored it for now. She had an interview to conduct.

Doctor Klein smiled indulgently at her. "It is quite a collection, isn't it? Some people might say that I was obsessed -."

"I'd day you were dedicated to your hobby," Miranda chimed in.

The warmth of Klein's smile dropped a couple of degrees. "This is not a hobby. I have dedicated my life to achieving mastery of the art of coffee brewing."

Miranda scribbled something in her reporter's notebook. "Really?"

"Really?" The doctor snapped round and stared at Miranda. "My dear lady, I think it is fair to say that I am the talk of coffee society." He allowed himself a self-indulgent chuckle for this display of wit.

"You're talking about the London Coffee Society?"

"Of which I am a member of the board of trustees. Yes." Doctor Klein forced his smile up a notch or two. "Would you care for a demonstration of my craft, Miss Blair?"

"Please!"

Doctor Klein set to, taking down various utensils from the shelves. "Now, what would you like?"

"Well." Miranda hesitated. "I'm not much of a coffee drinker -."

She was interrupted by a metallic crash as Klein slammed a container onto the counter top. "Not a coffee drinker?"

"Not really."

"Then," Klein's smile took on a grim aspect, "I will see if I can convert you. Now, let us find out which one would suit you. Please answer my questions truthfully."

As he prepared his equipment, Doctor Klein interrogated Miranda. He asked questions about preferences in flavours, smells, even colours. With each answer, he would select another piece of equipment from his collection. A grinder; a filter funnel; a bag of coffee beans. He worked to assemble a contraption that hissed and gurgled, from which he produced an aromatic liquid.

"Here," Doctor Klein said. "A beginner's coffee. Not too complex, but mature in taste. A deep tone with a perfect crema. All from ground beans and water. Tell me what you think?"

Miranda took the preferred cup - it seemed absurdly small and delicate - and raised it to her lips. She paused to inhale the steam coming from it, then took a mouthful. "Needs sugar," she said after a moment's thought.

"Sugar?" Doctor Klein's expression was cold and impassive; but deep within a fire of rage had been kindled.